


Christmas in the Cotswolds

by Antarctica OKane (C0DENAMEAntarctica)



Series: The Personal Journal of Mycroft Holmes [2]
Category: Greg Lestrade - Fandom, Mark Gatiss - Fandom, Mycroft Holmes - Fandom, Mystrade - Fandom, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Play, Anal Sex, Angst, Cancer, Christmas, Christmas Lights, Christmas Romance, Christmas Tree, Cocaine, Conflict, Conflict Resolution, Drug Abuse, Emotional confessions, Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, FENTANYL, Great Expectations (Novel), Hidden Room, Hotel, It's A Wonderful Life (Film), M/M, Mentioned Eurus Holmes, Mentioned Sherrinford, Morphine, Oral Sex, Romance, Romantic Walk in the Snow, Secret Passage, Secrets, Sibling Rivalry, opiods, references to The Final Problem, references to the Abominable Bride
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 10:47:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27849626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/C0DENAMEAntarctica/pseuds/Antarctica%20OKane
Summary: Greg is determined to make 2018 a Christmas Mycroft will never forget.  It seems that everyone from Mycroft to John, though, has secrets they've been hiding for a very long time.
Relationships: Established Mystrade - Relationship, Mycroft Holmes & Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes/Lestrade, Mystrade - Relationship
Series: The Personal Journal of Mycroft Holmes [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2037250
Comments: 28
Kudos: 42





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> CONTENT WARNING:  
> This work deals with mature themes and features explicitly described sexual interactions.  
> This story is not for readers under the age of 18.
> 
> Copyright Note:  
> This work is intended for the personal use of the author and other members of the listed fandom. It is written with complete respect for the creators and writers of Sherlock. This work in no way aims to change, correct, or significantly alter properly published works. While Doyle's works are Public Domain, the author understands that material written by Gatiss, Moffat, and Thompson is still protected. This work exists only for the purpose of entertainment and will never be sold or otherwise used for profit. Any requests to remove this work made by Gatiss, Moffat, Thompson, Sue Vertue, Beryl Vertue, Hartswood, BBC, or any other related entities will be honoured immediately without question. 
> 
> Plagiarism Note:  
> In this author's Mystrade fics, Mycroft is an avid reader. Whenever we find him reading, we will find him reading Great Expectations. This is the author's nod to Mark Gatiss, the actor who plays this version of Mycroft Holmes on television. Mr. Gatiss has named Great Expectations as his favourite novel.  
> When we find Mycroft reading the novel, we may see quotes of text from the Dickens' classic within the fanfic. Great Expectations is, of course, now Public Domain, so copyright is no issue, but this note is just to explain that no plagiarism is intended. 
> 
> This story also includes reference to the Christmas film, It's A Wonderful Life, which is now also Public Domain.

I abhor Christmas. I loathe it. There is nothing more I detest than festive Christmas gatherings. I’ve always spent each December avoiding Mummy’s phone calls, hoping to also evade a family dinner, along with the scents of cinnamon, turkey, and mulled wine. I’m certain to reply to Sherlock and Dr. Watson’s invitations each year with silence - God forbid I have to listen to Sherlock play carols on his violin.

If you remain ignorant, a common ailment of most people, you should be aware that Detective Inspector Lestrade and I made our romantic relationship official and public during the winter that followed the disaster at Sherrinford. I’m quite certain you’ve heard about that incident - everyone has.

Our decision to be together - and live together - came after years of late-night rendezvous. 

Well, I should have deduced that welcoming an ordinary human being into my home would add a unique and particularly irksome obstacle to my avoidance of Christmas cheer. 

I entered into this year’s supposedly joyous season with my usual disgust, but also with a newfound sense of dread. Ever my antithesis, Greg loves Christmas. He adores every bit of ghastly music, lights, food, fellowship, and, as he calls it, “magic.” 

Though most assume such a sentiment impossible in my case, I do love this man. I love him with every bit of my admittedly dim, hard, and arctic heart. It is precisely that ridiculous human emotion that found my nose itching and eyes watering in my parlour as Greg wrestled with a twelve-foot Nordmann Fir by the window. 

“Why are we doing this?” I asked between sneezes.

“It’s Christmas, Mycroft.”

“To be accurate, Christmas is twenty-three days from now. Again, though, let me ask, why are we doing this?”

“Would you just come here and help me, please? You don’t have to lift or anything, but your height would really be great right now.” He attempted to balance on the balls of his feet so that he could reach high enough to steady the ludicrous monstrosity into its pot. I stood less than four inches taller than Greg, but my habit of a straight back and raised chin often made the gap appear larger. 

I took a few steps, reaching above my head to stop the top of the tree from falling onto Greg. “I went with you in that preposterous vehicle to a lot covered in filthy overpriced shrubs. How much more of my dignity would you like to rob me of today?”

“Thank you.” He ignored my inquiry, stepping away from the tree, rubbing his hands together in an effort to remove the bark and needles that covered them - and the rest of his body. 

In silence, I walked away, toward the sitting room. 

“Waistcoat okay? Didn’t snag the silk or anything, did we?” he jibed, following me to the sofa. 

“Oh, shut up.” My throat caught on the last word. “I’m sorry,” I offered. Feeling particularly cross never warrants disrespect. 

“You could at least have an open mind,” he suggested, standing next to me, unbuttoning his sullied shirt.

I watched as each bit of skin was revealed, but had, by that time, become a master at hiding my penchant for gawking at him. “My mind _is_ open. My mind is open to information, to knowledge, to logic. That leaves little room for asinine spectacles.”

He sat next to me on the sofa, now shirtless and glowing with perspiration. His warm lips suddenly snatched mine, as he hummed through his nose. “For me?”

“What other reason can you possibly imagine is behind everything I’ve already done?” I murmured into his mouth. His body carried the same odor as the tree but didn’t induce even the smallest respiratory tickle.

“Trust me. Relax a little. Undo a button and let loose.” His sarcasm was accompanied by his uniquely endearing grin. “You might actually enjoy Christmas this year if you give me a chance.”

He certainly did have an ability to soften me in unexpected ways, but Christmas? Unlikely. “Allow me to wish you luck at that endeavor, Inspector. Now, go shower, ” I ordered.

“Yep.” He said standing. “And you’re not invited.”

“Good.”

He shook his head at me with a combination of disgust and amusement as he walked toward the stairs.

*******

_You are part of my existence, part of myself. You are in every line I have ever read..._

Greg’s voice suddenly pulled my attention away from the book on my lap.

“Of course we can. How can I help? Can I buy anything for you ahead of time? Would you like me to bring anything along?” His deep cadence echoed in the marble hall, finally returning downstairs from his shower. “Well, you let me know, alright?” A few seconds of silence passed, and then I heard, “I know. I know. But he will. I’ll make sure of it.” He disconnected his mobile as he walked into the room. 

“You shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep to a tender-hearted woman,” I explained, closing my book and placing it on the nearby tea table. “It’s cruel, really.”

Greg walked to the sofa, worked his way into the corner, and then reached for my shoulder, pulling me back to rest my head in the crook of his neck. “I’ve promised your Mum we’ll go for Christmas dinner - and we will. Everything went just fine last year.”

“Yes, just fine,” I said with a sigh, remembering the childish tantrum Sherlock had thrown over my father insisting that his mobile be turned off at the table.

“I’m going to have you so happy by then that you won’t even think a thing about going to dinner.”

“Really? How, may I ask, do you plan to create such delirious joy within me?” I quipped.

“We’re going to take a trip.”

“What exactly does that mean?”

He leaned down to kiss my cheek, then whispered in my ear, “It means we drive somewhere. We get away from all the same old things we see and do every day. We sleep somewhere else. We do fun things.”

“Fun?”

“I can get the dictionary if you need it,” he said, starting to slide out from under me. 

I grabbed him near his rib cage and pulled him back to me. The shirt he’d thrown on post-shower was tight to his strong torso and noticeably soft. Bamboo perhaps? 

I ran my fingertips down his bare forearm, noting, as always, the difference between my pale, freckled skin and the golden, chestnut pigment of his. “Where do you plan to go?”

“I found a little place in Bourton-on-the-Water. It has…”

“Cotswolds?” I interrupted. “Why?”

“Because it will get you into a Christmas spirit.”

“Oh, will it?”

“Do something for me?”

“You mean besides putting a pagan, evergreen offering to the Egyptian sun god in my parlour?”

He inhaled deeply, then exhaled through pursed lips. “You know, your brother deletes silly facts that don’t matter.”

“He has a smaller hard drive.”

He exhaled, again, forcefully. “One thing for me?”

“Yes, Greg.” I paused, hesitant to speak the painful truth of my devotion to him. “Anything for you,” I promised, sliding down his body and lifting the bottom of his shirt to reveal his freshly washed skin. 

“No more complaining. No more sarcasm. Give me this one chance to make Christmas tolerable for you. If I fail, I promise we’ll completely ignore the entire thing next year. But just let me try?”

I kissed his athletic abdomen gently where the waistband of his joggers stopped. “No more complaints,” I agreed.


	2. Chapter 2

The pelt of ice that had built upon the shoulders of my overcoat slid down onto the foyer floor as I entered the home I now shared with Greg. It was the same house I’d lived in for more than fifteen years, but it seemed different as of late. Greg had insisted on adding small rugs in different areas and his love for cooking usually left an appetizing aroma that had rarely wafted through the enormous building before his arrival. I had never believed the house to be cold, as Greg did. These days, however, it did feel a bit more like a lived-in home. 

I’d returned from a meeting at Downing Street. Greg had taken the entire week away from work and had told me he’d spend his time cleaning and packing for our Christmas-themed getaway. We were meant to drive to the Cotswolds in the morning and I’d promised to be home by three o’clock to pack my own clothes.

“Greg!” I called through the house as I placed my umbrella in its stand. 

I was answered by my own echo. 

I walked halfway up the staircase. “Greg?” 

Still no answer. 

Where was he? I’d agreed, reluctantly, to his silly trip. The least he could do was be there when he said he’d be. 

“Greg,” I called, walking from the stairs to the sitting room, then to the kitchen. 

My mobile vibrated in my pocket. The words “find me” displayed on the screen. 

I huffed with frustration. Was this a game - part of his weekend plan? Was something actually wrong - had he been kidnapped? I didn’t have time for this. 

I dialed the phone. “I’m busy,” Sherlock’s voice was muffled. Clearly, he was looking into a microscope. 

“Sorry to distract you from whatever lovely specimen you’ve decided to study today, dear brother. Is Greg with you?”

“Who?”

“Sherlock!”

“He’s not with me. Why would he be with me?”

“I haven’t the foggiest. He sent me a text telling me to find him. I thought perhaps you were on a case.”

“No case,” he said curtly. “It sounds more like he’s inviting you to some sort of love lair.”

“Oh, stop it,” I snapped. “Where could he be? We’re meant to leave for a trip in the morning.”

“What were his plans for the day?” Sherlock suggested mindlessly, clearly having spotted the desired attribute of the object lying on his tray.

“He said something about cobwebs in corners and bubbles in wallpaper. Do you know I’ve changed cleaning services three times since he moved in?” I complained. He really never was content.

“I don’t know. You’re the smart one,” he said with the sharp point of a long ridiculed child. “That house is so colossal - maybe he just got lost.”

“Oh no.” I froze and lost my grip on the mobile. Before I could even hear it hit the cold floor, I was running up the staircase. I hadn’t run in years. I regularly rushed across rooms to grab something from Sherlock when his otherwise adult body was acting like a petulant toddler but hadn’t actually run since I was probably nine or ten years old.

“Why are there so many?” I muttered under my breath. Even taking the stairs two at a time as my height allowed didn’t seem to empower me to tread them any more quickly. 

I slowed as I reached the final landing and saw the door to one of the bedrooms standing open. Breathing so heavily that I could hear nothing but a slight wheeze in my throat, I approached the door. Across the room, I spotted it. The hidden door that was built into the wall. It was papered so as to perfectly blend in with the rest of the space, its hinges usually hidden by a hat rack. It felt like I was dragging my feet through quicksand as I approached the secret, yet, now open, door.

“He found it,” I whispered to myself. My hands started shaking, as I walked through the door and began to descend the staircase which it was meant to hide. I had climbed two flights merely to rush down three. This was the only way to access the lower level of my house. It was, for lack of a better word, a dungeon. 

As I reached the bottom of the concrete stairs, it was clear that all the lights had been turned on. I could hear a music box playing Buffalo Gals. He had found everything. I stepped onto the plush carpet that I’d had placed in the space upon moving into the home. As I turned to face the wide expanse of the room, I saw Greg, seated on the floor, surrounded by solid oak boxes, some opened, others turned upside down, many still stacked neatly where I’d last left them. 

“How’s the Prime Minister today?” he asked simply, but with the weight of the world on his voice.

“Greg. I...” I couldn’t think of even one word that was appropriate.

I approached, reaching my hand to him. He grasped it, pulling himself off the floor, and followed me to the oversized ottoman which sat in the corner of the long room. 

“Well,” he started, clearing his throat and straightening his shoulders to present an air of formality, “allow me to introduce myself. I’m Greg Lestrade, and you are?”

“Greg, don’t be ridiculous.” I batted away the hand he’d extended to me.

“Well, I figure maybe we should start from scratch - seeing how I don’t know ya’ at all.”

“You know me better than anyone.”

“Oh, yeah? Who else knows about this?” he asked, gesturing vaguely to the center of the room.

“No one. You and me.”

“Well, it feels like I don’t know you.” He was avoiding eye contact, partly because he was hurt, but mostly because he knew it drove me mad.

“Greg,” I said, gently, “if you really think about it, you do know me and all this is simply evidence.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” He was genuinely angry.

“How long have you been down here?”

“I don’t know. At least two hours, I guess.”

“Answer me honestly, in those two hours, have you learned anything you didn’t already know?”

“Yes!” He couldn’t resist yelling. “I learned that there’s a hidden catacomb in the house that you say is ours. I learned that you keep secrets from me. I learned that you have,” he paused to quiet his voice, apparently having finally realised his volume, “all this.”

“You’re acting as if you’d discovered a torture chamber or an underground Nazi headquarters.”

“Who knows! How many other secret walls and doors and rooms are there around here?”

“Greg.”

“Don’t treat me like I’m being unreasonable,” he snapped.

“What word would you use, then - for this behavior?”

“Mycroft, I trust you. I trust you with everything - my secrets, my body, my heart, my damn life. It hurts to find out you lie to me.”

“I never deliberately lied to you. It just never occurred to me that you should know about this. It has nothing to do with you, really.”

He stood and approached one stack of oak against the wall. “This says otherwise.” He planted himself in front of a tower of four boxes with his arms crossed. 

I walked toward him, reaching around his back to pull down the top box. Resting it carefully on the floor, I opened it tenderly. On the top of the box was laid a large jacquard blanket that had once decorated the back of my sitting room sofa. I lifted it out, carefully placing it on my knee, to find a red knit scarf and several folded sheets of paper. “In what way, exactly, does this offend you?” I asked, raising the scarf to my nose and inhaling its odor. 

Greg knelt next to me. “It doesn’t offend me.” His voice was far softer than it had been. “I’m just used to knowing what you’re thinking and feeling, even if you’re not able to say it. But this….” He had no idea what he should say.

I allowed one arm to support me as I shifted all the weight to my backside, sitting now on the floor to face him. This was a moment for words - the proper words. What were they? “Greg, you know that emotions aren’t easy for me. You know that my heart is probably best described as a fortress surrounded by a moat of ice.”

“If you want to understate things,” he muttered wearily.

“Precisely my point. There are, however, two places in this universe where that heart finds a home. With you, and in these boxes.”

He looked at me empathetically, beginning to understand my reasons for keeping the room hidden, then reached for a few of the folded papers. “Did you keep every single one?” 

“Yes,” I admitted.

During our long period of midnight trysts, Greg had the habit of leaving a note for me before he left my side. I, inevitably, would fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat and he would rush away well before dawn. I would always wake to a note.

Greg reached and snatched the scarf from my hand. “Thought I’d lost this.”

“You did,” I said matter of factly.

He examined the scarf he’d accidentally left behind one night as I picked the blanket up, wrapping my arms around it, almost in a hug.

I saw Greg look at the blanket, smile, and then find my eyes. His hand suddenly grazed my back as he softly said, “You are an absolutely beautiful man. If people only knew…”

I interrupted him. “That’s why people don’t know.” I cleared my throat in an effort to scare away the sentiment that was caught in my windpipe. It was a wasted effort. 

Greg rubbed my spine as he watched me gently return the notes and his scarf to the box. He must’ve noticed my hesitancy to let go of the blanket. I felt his breath against my ear as he whispered, “I’m right here.”

He was correct. He was right there. He was sitting next to me and, for some reason beyond my considerable comprehension, loving me. I closed my eyes as I placed the blanket in the box. My mind flashed to the sitting room, the smell of hickory logs, the taste of strawberry wine, and the touch of Greg’s lips on my chest. The first night he’d come to my house under the cover of night, this was the blanket we’d rested upon.

“Hey.” Greg’s voice startled me out of my memories. “I’m sorry that I reacted like that. I guess I was sort of a dick about it.” 

“I shouldn’t have secrets from you.”

“Well, now that I know about all this, do you still? Is there anything else?”

“No. Just this.” I moved my arm to gesture around the space. The room was the length of my sitting room, parlour, and dining room combined. The oak boxes weren’t labeled but were carefully cataloged in my mind. I could find any item I desired without effort. 

Tower 2, Box 3, baby pictures of Eurus

Tower 7, Box 5, Sherlock’s pirate costume

Tower 9, Box 1, my rock collection from the stream at Musgrave

As I scanned through the card catalog of my mind, Greg leaned across an oak lid to reach the music box I’d heard earlier. It was no longer playing, but he immediately found the key to wind it. 

I could hear the words in my head, “Buffalo gals won’t you come out tonight, come out tonight, come out tonight”. 

“Explain this one, though. Everything else makes some sort of sense.” He handed me the music box.

“I was thirteen. It was in my Christmas stocking.”

“There’s more of a story there than that.”

“I had just seen It’s A Wonderful Life for the first time.”

“That’s a film, right?”

“My God, Greg. Yes. It’s a film.” I paused to shake off his ignorance. All he ever watched was football. “It’s my favourite film. This is the song that plays during the opening credits, and then plays its own role in the story as well.” 

“The thirteen-year-old maven of film with his music box. Yep, I can see it.” 

He was mocking me, but doing it with love. I ignored his comments and stood to return the music box back to its home. 

Tower 11, Box 2

“You’re right, though,” he offered.

“About?”

“I do know you and this  _ is  _ proof. You’re your mother through and through. You’ll never admit it, though.”

“I’m sorry?” I turned to look at him.

“You’re the same person you and her.”

“She.”

“You and she,” he corrected himself with a growl. “The only difference is, you try to mask what you are. She embraces it.”

“I don’t try.”

“I’m sorry. No. You don’t try. You succeed. Brilliantly, really.” He stood and walked toward me. “But you don’t succeed with me, Mycroft Holmes,” he said, using his arms to pin my body between two stacks of boxes. “To me, you’re transparent.” He used his hips to force my backside against the wall. 

Before my mind could register his next several movements, the waistband of my trousers rested at my knees and Greg’s smooth tongue was caressing my cock. I let my head fall back against the wall for just a few seconds, inhaling the pleasure of his touch. Then, I pushed his shoulders back with enough force that he fell back onto the floor. He looked up at me with a devilish grin. I dropped to my knees, grabbing his wrists then forcing them above his head before biting his neck. He raised his hips, disturbing my balance, and rolled me onto my back, taking the high ground. He straightened his back and slid his shirt over his head. Without thought, I reached up to run the palms of my hands across his freshly waxed chest. He quickly grabbed my wrists, pinning them above my head as I’d done to him. 

This was our plight. A constant battle for dominance. A constant battle which, in physical moments like this, usually ended in both parties panting with desperation for one another until it no longer mattered who topped whom.

He kept one of my wrists secured above my head, and reached his other arm into his pocket, pulling out a pouch of lubricant. I moved my free hand to unfasten his trousers as he ripped the pouch open between his teeth, letting go of my wrist and backing up. The gel was warm from his pocket and felt delicious on my skin. Greg’s strong hands took little time to lather me up. I used the minute to pull his trousers below his knees. He squeezed what was left in the pouch onto his fingertips, reaching around his own body, taking a mere few seconds to ensure his own comfort. As he moved his hand from behind, I grabbed his hips, hoisting him upward and forward. He smiled, clutching the base of my cock with his hand, and slowly lowered himself onto it. His body rocked slightly and he circled his hips a few times, making sure his body could take it. Once his facial expression changed from wincing to hungry, I forced my pelvis upward. Greg let out a roar. He leaned down to kiss my chest as he used his solid thighs to raise himself up and down. I closed my eyes and felt my shoulders weaken as my head fell back onto the carpet. “I’m yours,” I conceded, deliberately contradicting his rhythm, offering a thrust upward each time he lowered his buttocks to my lap.

“I know,” he said, quickening his pace.


	3. Chapter 3

“Good afternoon. Lestrade,” I announced to the concierge leaning over the desk at the country inn Greg had found. It sat approximately a mile from Bourton-on-the-Water and even I had to admit it was quite an attractive spot.  
“No. It’s under Holmes.” Greg shuffled in, two suitcases in tow.  
“Sir, someone will take care of those for you,” said the concierge.  
“You used my name?” I asked as the concierge began to rifle through papers and keys.  
“Well, Anthea did. They were booked,” he paused to make his point, “until she called and used the magical name of Mycroft Holmes.”  
I rolled my eyes and turned my attention back to the young man behind the desk. “Oh, yes, of course. You’re in the suite. Welcome, Mr. Holmes. It’s truly our pleasure to have you here. I’ll show you the way,” he offered, as another young man came and took the cases from Greg.  
We were greeted by the aroma of fresh scones as we entered the suite. “Tea already laid out for you, sir.” The concierge passed the keys to me. “Dinner is served each evening at seven-thirty if you choose to join us. Tonight’s menu is a choice of lamb or bass with a lovely anise hollandaise.”   
Greg leaned a bit so that he could catch my eye from behind the concierge. Evidently, he thought that menu would cause me to suddenly cover the entire weekend with a stamp of approval.   
“Many thanks,” I said to the young men, handing them each a folded bill.  
Greg closed the door as they departed.  
“Well, we’re here. Now what?” I asked, running my fingers along the archway that divided the sitting and sleeping areas.  
“Tea,” answered Greg, finding his way quickly to one of the wingback chairs near the tea table.  
I examined my fingers for dust as he continued.  
“There’s music in a garden nearby later.”  
“Mmmm,” I acknowledged without enthusiasm.  
“Your sort of music. A string quartet, I think. We can walk over and take everything in.”  
“Walk?” I scoffed, landing in the chair opposite him.  
“Walk,” he said with a grin, handing me a cup. “No complaints. You promised.”  
“Have I complained?”  
“Not out loud.”  
I squinted my eyes at him, acknowledging the accusation.  
He ignored it. “We’ll enjoy this,” he explained, dipping into the dish of clotted cream, “and we’ll get settled a bit. Then, we’ll walk around for a while, come back for dinner and drinks, and then rest. I’m sure you’re tired from driving.”  
He was absolutely correct. I was exhausted. I was not used to driving, but rather to being driven. Greg drove a police car around London every day, so I thought it’d be a kind gesture to offer my less than seasoned skills behind the wheel for the day.   
“We’re here for three days. That will be the deal.”  
“What?”  
“I get to plan anything I like all day, but you’re in charge after dinner.”  
I smiled in agreement, knowing that would preclude any silly outings to view Christmas lights. 

*******

The stroll hadn’t been completely unbearable. In fact, Greg clinging to my arm as we wandered felt quite good. There were moments in our relationship when I found myself completely at his mercy. Walking around that afternoon, however, he allowed me to lead, probably knowing it made me feel about ten feet tall. I had even stopped with him at a kiosk serving hot chocolate and mulled wine.   
Having only been there a matter of hours, Greg was already appallingly happy. His face was glowing as though he’d spent six weeks relaxing on a tropical island. I certainly can’t say that I was any more at ease than normal or that I was feeling, as Greg would say, “Christmassy.” It was splendid, though, to know that my handsome silver-haired dish had confiscated my mobile. I was guaranteed not to hear from Downing Street, the Cabinet Office, MI6, or anyone else, for three days.  
We had enjoyed a truly delicious dinner - Greg had been absolutely right about that menu - and decided to explore the pub area for a drink before retiring upstairs. It was named a country inn, however, the estate was breathtaking and absolutely premier. I’d left Greg at our table in the corner of the rustic, stone room to order my drink at the bar. They had a 1947 Chateau Cheval Blanc on the wine list and I could think of no reason Greg should know I was paying more for a glass of wine than we were for one night in our suite.   
I returned to the table, sipping with anticipation as I sat.   
“You alright?” Greg asked.  
“Hmm,” I hummed, licking my lips, “why?”  
“I’ve never seen your face do that while you had clothes on.” He chuckled, taking a gulp from his mug of beer.  
“You couldn’t possibly understand,” I demeaned, looking at his stout and then shaking my head at him. The wine truly did border on the orgasmic.  
“I feel bad for you, really,” he said.  
“What do you mean?”  
“It’s a shame that you somehow got sucked into wanting me - of all people.”  
“Greg,” I tried to contradict him.  
“No. Really. I mean, the great, clever, debonair, cultured Mycroft Holmes stuck with the inept, simpleminded, common Detective Inspector.”  
“Greg,” I repeated.  
He looked up from his stein and winked at me. “You’re so easy to rile up.”  
I stood, reaching my hand to him. “Detective Inspector,” I paused, winking in return, “I propose we finish these in our rooms.”  
He stood, taking my hand, and clutching his beer in the other. “Sounds pretty perfect to me.”

*******

Rifling through the suitcases I hollered to Greg who was already lying in bed, “I’ve no idea where anything is.”  
“What are you looking for?” he called back.  
“Nevermind. I found it,” I declared, pulling my nightshirt from a pile of both his clothes and mine. As I reached to close the lid, something metal caught my eye. I pushed a cashmere jumper out of the way and found Greg’s handcuffs. Next to them, rested his unloaded Glock. He had taken my mobile and insisted that neither of us even think about work for the duration of this little escape. “Looks like work to me,” I mumbled to myself, picking up the unlocked handcuffs and walking toward the bedroom.  
“Do you care to explain what an off-duty Inspector needs with his weapon and cuffs?”  
He was reclining against several pillows, clad only in hip shorts. “I just like to be prepared.”  
“For?”  
“You never know.”  
“Greg,” I moaned, “we agreed to no work. I’ve cooperated - surprisingly,” I admitted. “You need to do your part.”  
“Do I look like I’m working?” He ran his hand through the air as if a model in an advert, presenting his mostly bare body. “But,” he continued, “if the bloke in the room down the hall tries to rape some poor woman in the middle of the night, won’t it be nice that I’m prepared to deal with it?”  
“Do you even know where the key is?” I asked, holding up the cuffs as I approached the bedside.   
“Of course I do. Now, go put those away and come here.”  
I stood beside him, examining the metal contraption. “Yes. That would be one option.”  
“Mycroft put them away.”  
I ignored his request. “Or,” I began to suggest, “I could do this.” As quickly as I could I gathered his hands above his head near the brass bars of the bed’s headboard. He was stronger, but I was always faster.  
“Myc. Come on. Stop it.”  
I laced the chain connecting the two units behind a brass post and then secured his wrists in the cuffs.  
“What if I just lied to you? What if I don’t have the key?”  
“Your right eyelid twitches when you lie. You were telling the truth,” I said, crawling onto the bed, one leg on each side of his.  
“You ever considered a stint as a professional poker player?”  
“I choose to use my skills for good, not evil,” I replied, bending down, grabbing the waistband of his shorts between my teeth.  
“Considering my current predicament, I’d like to argue that.”   
“Argue away, Inspector.” I tugged his shorts all the way past his strong thighs, then off of his legs, before lifting myself to be face to face with him. I licked his lips, as he pursed them together in an effort to resist me. “Come on,” I complained. “If you don’t let me warm up here, it won’t be nearly as good down there.”  
Before the words were completely gone from my mouth, his opened. As I kissed him, he allowed his head to fall back onto the bunch of pillows upon which he was resting. He moaned into my mouth as I plunged into his, my tongue hoping to reach new depths of his delicious maw. I pulled back, taking only his bottom lip into my mouth, alternating nibbles with gentle suction.   
He nipped back and inhaled audibly as he kissed me in return. “Myc, will you get the keys, please?” he asked, releasing my lips.  
“When I’m through,” I answered.  
“With what?”  
“With you,” I replied, moving my lips to the cartilage of his right ear. “Use your imagination,” I whispered, certain to leave the tingle of warm breath on his skin. “If you could live one fantasy right now, at this moment, what would it be?” I dragged my just slightly parted lips down the artery point in his neck, to his collarbone, stopping there to kiss and suckle.   
“If you know me so well, Mycroft,” he answered, “you know that I don’t have any fantasies left. I have everything I could possibly want.”  
I ignored the deliberate saccharine of his comment and continued on to his nipples, giving both ample attention with my tongue and teeth. I spent time pulling one into my mouth until he let out a gasp of air, then repeated it again, and again, until his breathing became heavy. His chest was waxed again - something he did only for my benefit. I rubbed my nose up and down his chest between his pectorals, before sliding my tongue lightly in a straight line downward. My hands gripped his pelvic bones as I toyed with his navel in much the same way as his nipples. His hips reflexively thrust upward every several seconds as his abdomen began to rise and fall at a far quicker pace.   
“Definitely evil,” he said, adjusting his shoulders to shake off the urgency of desire.  
I stopped for a moment to examine his body. His cock was already dripping and engorged with excitement and I could watch his pulse pumping through his balls. I had never been a particularly convinced believer in religion, but the perfection of his body was something I could easily worship.   
Locking my eyes with his, I used my tongue to clean the wetness off the tip of his aching prick. “Oh, God,” I heard him moan as soon as he saw my tongue touch him.   
I kissed my way down the underside of his shaft, closing my eyes with pleasure as I took one ball in my mouth and the other in my hand. He moaned again, this time without words, as I sucked and massaged. Sliding as far down the bed as I could and moving onto my back, I slid my head behind his right leg, taking just a few brief seconds to rim him before focusing my tongue on his taint.  
“Fuck.” He squirmed his hips, the inability to use his hands to direct me or even take care of himself was starting to drive him mad.   
I stayed beneath him, licking the underside of his cock, stopping every few passes to blow the smallest bit of warm breath on his slit. After spending a moment or two gently sucking his frenulum, I slid back out from under his legs, planting myself next to him, resting on my right shoulder. I used parted lips to tease the rim of his prick, moving in circles until I heard him again, “Holy Fuck!”  
Now, perhaps, I could say I was relaxed and certainly happy. I thrived on giving Greg pleasure and the added impact of his hands being restrained was leaving him breathless. No matter what else the weekend might hold, this moment was worth the entire trip.   
Still wanting to tease him, but truly unable to resist any longer, I devoured him, taking his entire cock as far into my mouth as I could without discomfort. Six years of his size and thickness had trained the back of my throat well. I released him, only to hear him sigh. I looked up to find his eyes clenched shut and his arms yanking at the cuffs, desperate to control me with his hands.   
I reached toward the nightstand. I knew him and knew quite well that he would have already made sure every area of this suite was prepared for anything. I opened the drawer to find three packets of lubricant from the box he kept in our ensuite at home.   
He opened his eyes as he heard the pack rip open. “Oh God,” he said, now deliberately clanging the chain of the handcuffs against the brass.  
Covering a few fingers lightly with the gel, I returned quickly to his twitching cock, taking it again in my mouth, finding my up and down rhythm, while holding my tongue flat against its underside, creating enough pressure to make Greg whimper. I eased two long fingers into his hole, kneading his balls with my other hand. His entire body tightened, as he thrust his cock deeper into my mouth. He circled his hips begging for my fingers to go deeper. My long hands gave me just enough reach within his slightly smaller body to press on his prostate. I pumped against it with my fingers, savoring the salty taste of his cock.   
I could feel my own stiff shaft now resting against his thigh as it began to shake. The chain rattled again and he screamed in his husky voice, “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”  
I could feel myself grin as I swallowed every drop of his pleasure.   
Greg’s body went nearly limp beneath me and I could almost hear his heartbeat between his gasps for air. “Will you unlock me, now?” he panted.  
I laughed quietly. “Where’s the key?”  
“Billfold,” he replied breathlessly.  
I stood and walked across the room to remove his wallet from the trousers he’d draped over the back of a chair. I climbed onto the bed, straddling him again, carefully releasing his wrists, then placing the key and cuffs on the bedside table as I kissed the edge of his lips.   
Suddenly, his strength returned and he clutched my backside, pulling my hips toward him. “Come here, Daddy,” he said, using one hand to pull my cock from my satin bottoms and taking me, dripping and begging, into his mouth.  
Maybe I could get used to Christmas getaways.


	4. Chapter 4

The air was so incredibly crisp and fresh that I didn’t mind the faint hint of cinnamon lingering in the breeze, nor did I scoff at the recording of the Christmas Waltz faintly playing in the distance. Greg’s arm, bundled in his leather bomber jacket, was linked with mine and his gloved right hand ran up and down the forearm section of my overcoat as we walked. 

“You’ve never been to one of these have you?” Greg asked.

“A Christmas Market? Not since before Sherlock was born,” I replied. I could vaguely remember my Mum shopping through chocolates and baked treats at a stall playing jazz music.

“Well, what do you think, then?”

I stopped to look around. The stall closest to us had fountains of hot chocolate. Over from that, there was a stall of fresh fruits for holiday baking. A traveling carousel rested in the middle of the park, surrounded by children. I closed my eyes and could smell sausage cooking. I opened my eyes and looked at Greg’s sweet face, waiting for an enthusiastic reply. “It’s better than fielding phone calls about national crises.”

“And I’m willing to accept that’s probably the best I’m going to get out of you,” he said with a laugh, gripping my arm tighter. “Let’s go this way.”

He led me away from the kiosks to the smell of evergreens. I could hear an engine and people - a great many people. Through the trees, I was finally able to spot a rink of ice, being resurfaced by a Zamboni. 

“No. No. No,” I said, yanking his arm in the direction from whence we’d come. 

He pulled against me. “I don’t want to skate. I just want to watch.”

I stared at him, waiting for his eyelid to twitch. 

“Honestly,” he insisted. “Please?”

“Alright,” I conceded, following him to a bench near the side of the ice. 

I sat, as I always did, with my legs crossed, my arm at the back of the seat, and my umbrella resting beside me. Greg was quick to slide his way against my side and into the shadow of my extended arm. We sat without speaking for a few minutes. I spent the time watching his facial expressions as he found entertainment in watching the poor skills of the people attempting to maneuver the ice. His head dropped back to rest on my shoulder as he rubbed my knee. “Thank you,” he offered quietly.

“For?”

“For coming here. For taking a few days off. For not arguing with me every step of the way.”

“Mycroft Holmes?” A woman’s voice rang behind us before I could acknowledge what Greg was saying. I shifted slightly as she walked to the front of the bench. “It is you. Hello!”

Greg and I stood in unison as I took her hand. “Gertrude. Very nice to see you. Here on an official call?”

“Not at all. Holiday with the family,” she replied, gesturing toward the carousel. “And you?” she inquired, glancing toward Greg.

“My apologies,” I said. “Gertrude, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade, Scotland Yard.”

“Oh, well, I’m very sorry to interrupt, Inspector,” she apologised, assuming, then, that my purpose with Greg was business.

“No, not at all,” I began.

“It’s Greg Lestrade, ma’am,” he offered on his own, interrupting me.

“Yes. My -” I hesitated, but I knew I could do this. “My boyfriend, Gertrude.” 

I said it.

“Oh my! Well, that’s wonderful. I’m sure he keeps you quite busy, Mr. Lestrade,” she said with a smile.

“I’m permanently exhausted,” Greg quipped.

“Well, Happy Christmas. Enjoy the day,” she said, walking back toward her family.

Greg and I both returned to the bench. “MI6, Head of Secret Attack,” I said.

“She seems so normal.”

I laughed in reply to his tone of amazement. 

“You okay, though? Lightheaded? Queasy? If you’re feeling poorly we can go.”

“Stop,” I ordered, wrapping my arm around his shoulder.

“That’s the first time that word has ever come out of your mouth.”

“I haven’t the foggiest idea what you’re talking about.”

He cuddled himself back into my arm and rested his head again on my shoulder, smiling as he watched two children holding hands on the ice. 

I’d never admit it aloud, but there was something incredibly wonderful about the idea that simply referring to Greg as my boyfriend could make him smile in such a way. I took his hand in mine, leaning my cheek against the top of his head, as I felt the muscles in my face begin to smile as well. Damn. He really was going to succeed with all of this Christmas nonsense, wasn’t he?

*******

“So, what’s your plan for the evening?” Greg asked, eating the last sherried scallop off his dinner plate. 

“You’ll see,” I said with a smile. I wanted to tease him just a bit. He wouldn’t in a million years, guess what my plan actually was.

“Well, I’m ready whenever you are,” he said, eyeing the last few sips remaining in my glass of Armagnac. I swilled them down, as Greg stood.

“I assume I need this?” he tried to confirm, already buttoning his coat. “You’ll need to run upstairs for yours, then.”

Without replying, I escorted him to the main door of the establishment and suddenly heard him mutter under his breath, “Oh, you sneaky bastard.”

“Excuse me?” I said to him as I approached the woman standing in the foyer. 

“You’re unbelievable, you know that?” Greg complained as the woman provided my gloves and coat. 

“Good evening, Inspector,” she said, looking at Greg with a smile.

“Hi, Anthea,” he said, with a tired tone to his voice.

I looked back at him with a grin. “I’m in charge after dinner,” I said. “I believe those were your words?”

He rolled his dark brown eyes in annoyance. 

“We do things your way all day. After dinner, we do things my way,” I said, as Anthea tucked my scarf into the breast of my overcoat. I led them both out the door to the waiting, warm car. 

*******

The glass partition lowered as we heard Anthea announce, “Arriving momentarily, sir,” from the front passenger’s seat. 

“Now do I get to find out what you’re up to?” Greg pushed.

“Out you go,” I said, nudging his arm as the car came to a stop. 

We stepped out on the water’s bank to the sound of Christmas hymns being sung in an amphitheater opposite. 

I’d barely gained my footing before Greg pushed me back against the car, his face breaking into a wide grin. He planted a firm kiss on my lips, then grabbed my hand, pulling me toward the water. Evidently, he knew where we were.

“This way,” I instructed, placing his arm inside my elbow before leading him toward a half-sized gazebo, covered in twinkle lights. I sat on the small bench, but Greg chose to lean behind me, arms wrapped around my shoulders and chest, looking out at the water in anticipation. 

The hymn singing stopped and I could hear a group of people counting down in the distance. “Three. Two. One.” A large fir tree, floating on the water, was now lit with hundreds of colorful bulbs. Greg excitedly kissed my cheek three times in succession. 

“Alright. Alright,” I said, shaking my head. 

“You can’t even fake it anymore. You’re enjoying this,” Greg accused.

“I’m enjoying the fact that  _ you  _ are enjoying this,” I contradicted.

I looked back out toward the tree to see that it was suddenly snowing. I heard myself inhale deeply, knowing this would cause even more excitement in Greg.

To my considerable shock, he stayed calm. Instead of cheer, he offered quiet, nuzzling into my ear, whispering, “Come kiss me in the snow.” He straightened his back and offered his hand. He stopped several paces outside of the gazebo, turning to face me. 

“If you want me to do something, you’d best expect me to do it properly,” I insisted, taking his hand and walking with him farther down the water’s edge so that we were standing in the light of the enormous floating tree. Turning myself so that he could see me and the tree simultaneously, I took his handsome face in my hands and kissed him slowly. I felt the squeeze of his arms wrapping around my waist as he hummed into the kiss. As our lips parted, he begged in a whisper, “Please don’t stop.” I took his lips in mine again as a surge of warmth ran through my body. It was a feeling that, until this moment, my nervous system seemed to reserve for moments when Greg said “I love you.”

As I pulled his body as tight to mine as I could, the hymn singing began again and I felt his muscles loosen even more than they already had. As our lips parted again, I moved to stand behind Greg, arms wrapped around him in a hug. “I love you,” I whispered, resting my chin on his shoulder as we both looked up at the tree. 


	5. Chapter 5

I awoke with my face buried in Greg’s chest.  
“Good morning,” he offered softly, as he felt me shifting.   
“Hmm.” Words weren’t my forte during the first hour or so of the day. He smelled good, though - like cologne and sex. I kissed his chest in several spots, wrapping my arm around him, signaling that I had no intention of rising.   
For a moment, the room was as still as the cold winter outside. That, however, was interrupted by a ringing. Greg slid out from beneath me, walking quickly to the sitting area.   
“That’ll be the kitchen,” he explained. “I ordered breakfast.  
“This is Inspector Lestrade,” he said, picking up the hotel phone. “Yes, of course, thank you.”   
I could hear that his voice was a bit startled, so I stood from the bed, wrapping myself in a dressing gown and making my way to rest on the crushed velvet of one of the sitting room chairs.  
“What is it, John?”  
I shot Greg a glare. We had turned our mobiles off for a reason. Why did Dr. Watson even know where to reach us?   
“Slow down. Now, what happened?” Greg’s face grew white with panic. “When did you last see him?”  
I took a moment to consider the situation and Greg’s body language. It was Sherlock. He had disappeared again.   
“No. It’s okay. We’ll figure something out. Just stay in touch. And don’t leave in case he comes home, alright?” He hung up the phone and collapsed onto the chair opposite me.   
“We’re not leaving. We’re not ending this holiday early because my little brother decided to throw some sort of tantrum,” I insisted.  
“No, Myc, it’s not that. He’s high and missing.”  
“That’s unlikely. As long as he has Dr. Watson, he stays clean. There’s no reason for him to be using,” I argued.  
“Well, John was just diagnosed with cancer,” he said, with sorrow in his voice.  
“My God. Alright. Well, I’ll find him. I always do.” I stood, heading to the suitcase to dress. “I’m not sure I understand why John didn’t discuss this with me before telling Sherlock. He had to know how he’d react.”  
Greg grabbed my hand as I walked past him. “Mycroft, John didn’t tell him.”  
“Of course he didn’t.” I suddenly realised my mistake. “He wouldn’t have to, would he?”  
Greg’s thumb rubbed the flesh of my hand in an effort to offer comfort.   
“Greg,” I started, “I am so very sorry for this. I really am.”  
“Not another word,” he argued. “Let’s just find him before he kills himself.”

*******

It certainly wasn’t the first time I’d gone searching for my brother knowing he was lying somewhere in a drug-induced stupor.  
Upon arriving back in London, I’d left Greg at Baker Street to meet a drug squad and search Sherlock’s rooms. That left me to drive around the city in an attempt to locate my crocked little brother. It was now dusk and I was determined to find him before the cold of night set in.   
I’d already exhausted his most favored bolt-holes and two separate dosshouses where I’d found him in the past. As I ticked another box on the list in my mind, my mobile rang. “What have you found?” I asked.  
“Fentanyl sewn into John’s mattress and shrink-wrapped oxycodone in the toilet tank. Not much of either left, though, “ Greg explained.  
“No cocaine?”  
“None. He must’ve used up whatever he could get his hands on.”  
“Call Miss Hooper, would you, please? This will need to be handled discreetly once I locate him.”  
“She’s already waiting for my call,” he confirmed.   
Without further words, I disconnected the call and stopped the vehicle in an alleyway behind Bart’s. If my memory was serving me correctly, that’s where I believed Sherlock to have first met John. Perhaps he’d gone there. I walked through the alley in the snow, checking behind bins and in alcoves. Nothing. I, of course, had access to the surveillance cameras around the city that covered the roof of the hospital as well as the system inside the facility, and he’d not been seen anywhere.   
Wherever he’d gone, it had to be a location that he felt provided him a connection to Dr. Watson. I got back into the car, trying to think through my anger and recall all of the cases they’d worked on together. I found my head buried in my gloved hands. “Where would I go if I were Sherlock Holmes?” I asked myself.   
“Oh, God.” It was so obvious. How had I missed it?  
I drove as quickly as traffic would allow, bracing myself for what I was about to find. I was incredibly skilled at hiding any emotions with which I struggled. Sherlock, was, however, my Achilles heel. I’d spent most of my life watching over him.   
I stopped the car and reached under the seat for my pocket torch. The temperature had dropped significantly in the short drive from Bart’s. I lifted a blanket from the backseat before walking away from the car. Unfortunately, I’d learned to always have thermal blankets in any vehicle I used, specifically for this purpose.   
The light of my torch illuminated each gravestone I passed as I walked. There was nowhere else he could possibly be. This had to be it.   
I felt my heart rate increase as I approached the section where Mary Watson had been laid to rest. I saw a dark figure lying in front of the double headstone, which also bore John’s name. He was curled up like a sleeping animal. Unfolding the blanket, I knelt beside him.   
“Go away.” His words were barely discernible.   
“Sherlock, I need you to come with me now,” I said, as gently as possible.  
“I said, go away.”  
“You know that I won’t. I’ll carry you out of here if you leave me no other choice, Sherlock. Please come with me.” I rested my hand on his back. “I’ll help you stand.”  
Still not moving, he murmured, “Why do I never listen to you?”  
“Honestly, I’ve no idea,” I admitted. “What are you talking about?”  
“Sentiment. Friendship. Love.” He rolled over onto his back. “You told me once that caring is not an advantage. This is what caring does.”  
I stopped to consider what I’d said to him years ago. That conversation had happened just before Greg and I had started seeing one another. “Sherlock, I know you’ll be surprised to hear me say this, but - I was wrong.”  
“What do you mean? No, you weren’t. Lives end and those who remain are left behind to rot.   
“I was wrong, Sherlock. I’ll explain later. Right now, though, we need to get you out of the snow.” As the words escaped my lips, my memory flashed to a time when I was still but a teenager, carrying my snow-covered little brother to safety after finding him curled up much like this behind a pub’s bins.  
“I’m fine here, Mycroft. Please leave.”  
“Where’s the list?”   
“Mycroft, go!” he yelled. His voice echoed in the emptiness of the cemetery.   
“The list, Sherlock. Now!” I demanded.  
He reached into his coat pocket and threw a balled-up strip of paper at my face.   
Using the torchlight, I scanned the list. Fentanyl and oxycodone, just as Greg had said. Cocaine, as usual. Morphine. Heroine. “Good, God, Sherlock. It’s a miracle you’re still conscious.”  
“It’s not a miracle. You don’t even believe in miracles. It’s chemistry,” he contradicted.   
“Where do you want to go? I’ll take you anywhere you like. Baker Street? I’ll take you home with me. Just please let me get you out of here,” I pleaded.  
He sat himself up slowly. “Call Mummy.”  
“I’m sorry?” I was shocked by his request.  
“If I can go anywhere I like, that’s where I want to go.”  
“Sherlock, are you sure? You’ll be in for an ear full.”  
“As if I won’t be getting one from you every day for the next month? That’s where I want to go.”  
Our mother would be broken-hearted to see him like this. I’d made certain that she hadn’t been witness to this since he’d become an adult. I’d just promised him, though. “Alright. I’ll take you to Mummy, but I’m calling Dr. Watson to let him know.”  
“I don’t care what you do, Mycroft,” he groaned, putting his arm around my shoulder so that I could support him as he tried to stand. 

*******

I propped myself up against the wall of the foyer as I walked into the house. It was now nearly midnight. Sherlock was settled with my parents for the night and I’d been certain to have a conversation with Dr. Watson. I’d called Greg upon arriving at my Mum’s house several hours earlier, telling him to head home. My eyes drifted shut with exhaustion as I wondered what Greg had originally had planned for our last day away. It was now Christmas Adam and we’d be expected at Mummy’s for dinner the following afternoon.   
I forced myself to walk, despite my exhaustion. I heard voices as I approached the sitting room.   
“It’s a Christmas movie,” Greg said as I walked into the room. He sat on the sofa, which he’d moved, staring up at the wall watching the film reel of It’s A Wonderful Life.  
“It is,” I confirmed.  
“It’s a Christmas movie about friendship and love and the impact people have on each other’s lives.”   
I stood silently, still not moving any nearer to him.   
“What the hell happened, Mycroft?”  
“What do you mean?”  
“This is your favourite film? The man who despises Christmas? The man who avoids friendships at all costs? That same man had to have a music box to play a song from this movie when he was a kid?” He paused, looking back at the image dancing on the wall. “What broke you?”  
“I don’t have the energy for this. I’m going to bed.” Without having actually looked directly at him, I made my way up the stairs in silence. He didn’t follow.


	6. Chapter 6

**** I was still exhausted and somewhat infuriated as the car pulled up to my parent’s house. Greg had spent most of the ride silent, but staring at me. He was worried about me - and about Sherlock - but was unsure of what to say or do that would be of help. Instead, he chose a swift clutch of my hand before sliding out of the car. 

Without a word passed between us, we walked, arm in arm to the doorstep, to find Dr. John Watson pacing before it. 

“John, are you alright?” Greg reached out for Dr. Watson’s arm as he spoke.

“Yeah. I just… Well, after yesterday…” 

I interjected. I’d never been able to stomach watching a man flounder for words. “Dr. Watson, I’m glad to see you. You were missed last year.” He had spent the previous holiday in an attempt to work through his mess of a relationship with his own sibling. I fully understood his struggle.

“Thank you, Mycroft,” he said, now seeming to breathe a bit easier. “Sherlock insisted I come this year, but once I got here… Well, I’m not sure if I’m really still welcome.”

“Dr. Watson, whatever has happened, I can assure you, this is a home where you’ll always be welcome.” I knew I spoke for my mother as well as Sherlock.

I could feel John’s eyes resting on me. My kindness was unexpected.

As I reached for the handle, the wood and iron door swung open. 

“What on earth are you boys doing? It’s incredibly cold. Get inside.” My mother waved us through the door, snatching Greg’s hat from his head as he crossed the threshold. “Father’s just building a fire, but there are snacks on the table.” 

Greg and John both found seats and were unable to resist the prawn cocktail that Mummy had laid out. I paced a bit near the table, wondering what condition Sherlock was in. 

“Come sit down, love,” Greg coaxed, patting his hand on the seat next to him. 

My mother watched as I ignored Greg’s request and continued to stew near the counter. She approached me with her back to John and Greg. “Mycie,” she whispered, “he’s just in the shower. He’ll be down.” She squeezed my arm. “He’s alright, boy.”

I acknowledged her with a slight nod but propped myself against the wall in the corner of the room.

Before my mother could even get a conversation started with John and Greg, Sherlock blew through the door at my right. “Afternoon, boys.” He stood at the edge of the table, clapped his hands, and rubbed them together, examining the many platters before him. He swiped four biscuits up in one hand, then landed in the seat next to Greg, quickly setting his feet up on the arm of John’s chair. “What’s on at Scotland Yard, then?” he asked Greg.

Greg and John both stared blankly at him. He was still high as a kite but was able to deceive with good grooming, excellent dress, and his keen focus.

Realising his friends wouldn’t indulge him, he turned his attention elsewhere. “Mummy, I think we need some music, don’t you?”

“Oh, stop it! Just stop this!” I yelled. “There’s no one here who you can fool!”

“Mycroft!” Mummy scolded.

“No,” I defied. “I will not just stand here and pretend that everything is ebullient. This is ridiculous!” Never in my life had I raised my voice to either of my parents in such a way. 

“Always so embittered when you’re hungry aren’t you, brother dear?” Sherlock jested, patting his stomach. 

I found myself rushing across the room toward him. “You insolent little chit!” I yelled, knocking his legs down off the arm of John’s chair. 

Greg stood, placing himself between me and Sherlock. As was typical, I let my exasperation spill out in thoughtless words. “Figures,” I said puffing my chest and pointing my nose to the ceiling. “Somehow I always knew your true loyalty would out in the end.” 

The blood drew from his cheeks and he reached for my arm, “Myc. No.”

My mother was already at my side, pulling my other arm. “Mycroft Holmes. Sitting room. Now.”

*******

“You, of course, have my apologies for yelling at you. I will not, however, just carry on as if nothing has happened,” I explained, looking up at my mother from the sofa. She stood, joined by my father, arms crossed in front of the fireplace. 

“Mycroft, it was an isolated incident. He’s in pain,” my father insisted.

With my head down, I found the courage to contradict him. “With all due respect, it is not at all an isolated incident. I can’t even count for you both the number of times I’ve fetched him from an alley over the years. I’ve spent my entire adulthood taking care of him and trying to protect you two from it.”

My mother moved to sit beside me. “Mycie,” she started, “you are a good brother and an honorable man. We don’t doubt everything you’ve done for both of them.” She was unwilling to use Eurus’ name but understood the timeliness of the comparison. “Sherlock has always been difficult. He was always emotional. Now, the only real human relationship he’s embraced since childhood is under threat. Put yourself in his shoes, dear boy. How would you feel if it were Greg with the sad news instead of John?”

“That’s different,” I argued immediately.

She took my hand. “Is it?”

The truth was, I had never been able to completely work out the nature of Sherlock’s relationship with Dr. Watson. “I don’t know,” I admitted.

Mummy confessed, “Neither do I.” 

“What we do know, is that he needs our support,” my father contributed. 

“I always support him,” I muttered.

“And dear Greg,” Mummy said. “Did you even hear the way you spoke to him?”

I had heard it, but I’d no idea what to say about my actions.

“You, my boy, are burdened with a very sharp tongue - and it can cut so deeply that the wounds can’t be healed. You’d do well to remember that.” She walked off into the kitchen. 

I felt my father’s hand on my shoulder. “Mycroft, we have a duty, you and I. Those two - they’re endlessly passionate. It’s a bit of a fault really. We’re the strong ones, though, son. It’s our charge to hold them together.”

“Don’t you ever tire of being strong?” I asked as he walked toward the door.

“At least once a day,” he said, holding his arm out in invitation for me to walk through the passage to the kitchen first.

I followed him to begin dinner. Entering the kitchen, I knew I needed to apologise to Greg before sitting down to eat. I scanned the room, to find John now sitting alone with Sherlock. Dr. Watson’s eyes caught mine with a look of empathy. I closed my eyes in pain, realising that Greg had fled, then was startled by Mummy’s whisper in my ear. “Go find him, Mycroft.” 


	7. Chapter 7

**** I rushed outside only to remember that I’d had my car drop us for the day. I had no way to drive anywhere. That, however, meant that Greg couldn’t have gone far either. 

How could I have done this? How could I have let myself snap at Greg? 

Sherlock. That’s how. It was all because of Sherlock. Who did he really think he was fooling with his act? He wasn’t fooling anyone and he was completely ungrateful. I’d found him. I’d pulled him out of his stupor, not just last night, but what felt like hundreds of times since he was just a child. Did he ever bother to thank me? No. Every time, he chose impertinence, deriding me at any opportunity. 

That certainly wasn’t any fault of Greg’s. What did he mean by that, though - blocking me from Sherlock? He knew how upset I’d been. Why did he choose to protect him? If he really loved me the way he claimed to, shouldn’t he be just as angry with Sherlock as I?

No sooner did I reach the small iron gate than I caught a glimpse of Greg in my periphery, propped up, seated in the snow against the side of the house, cigarette hanging out from the side of his mouth. I walked toward him in silence and stopped a few paces away, unsure of what the best words might be.

“Fag?” he offered, holding the box up in the air. 

“Thank you, no,” I said, shuffling my feet in the snow. What could I possibly say? I should have thought it through before walking over to him.

“I just needed some air,” he explained, pushing himself up to his feet and walking away from me, toward the back of the house.

I approached him, placing a hand on his shoulder, “Greg. I didn’t mean that.”

“Ya’ know - we say that don’t we? People always say that they didn’t mean something - that it was just said in a moment of anger. But the truth is if it comes out that quickly in a moment of anger, it's been harboring in there for a long time.”

That made sense.

“I don’t want to talk about this right now, anyway,” he said, throwing his half-finished cigarette into the snow. “We’re being incredibly rude to your Mum.”

“She told me to find you. Please let’s talk?”

“I don’t want to. We’re going to go in there, pretend this hasn’t happened, enjoy your parents, and we can deal with it later.” He began walking toward the front door. “You know,” he said, pausing and turning back toward me, “the worst part is, you know how I feel about you. You know how I’ve always felt about you. Whatever you were accusing me of in there - you know how completely idiotic the entire implication is.”

“Greg, I wasn’t….”

As I expected, he didn’t let me finish. “Later!” he insisted, opening the front door.

Even as a child, I’d never been one for fantasies and imaginings. Sherlock had been. He favored pirates of course, but I could recall he also had a wooden toy box he’d insisted for years was a time machine. 

If I had H.G. Wells’ time machine or even Sherlock’s little toy box, I would, without question, go back to that silly tree lighting ceremony in Bourton-on-the-Water. If I could just get back there, standing with Greg in my arms, and never move from that spot, maybe I’d have a chance to finally comprehend the word, “happy.” 

*******

As Mummy boiled the third kettle of the day, I found myself seated between Sherlock and Greg. It may have been the most uncomfortable I’d ever felt. 

Hours had passed, but I finally mustered up the humility necessary to acknowledge what I’d done. With a deep breath, I managed, “Apologies, brother mine.”

“Unnecessary, brother mine,” he replied, rising, with his usual grace, and then walking across the room to begin steeping another cup of tea.

“How about another cuppa, Dr. Watson?” my mother called across the room. 

“I’ll get it. Please,” insisted John, walking to join Sherlock near the table.

I watched my Mum stop to look out the nearby window. “Greg, dear?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Father looks to be struggling with all that firewood out there. Would you mind very much helping him?”

“Of course,” Greg answered, leaving me to sit alone.

I pulled my watch from its pocket to check the time, noticing my mother land beside me before I could process the placement of the dials. 

“It’s too easy to get them all to do what you want them to, isn’t it?” She laughed, looking up at John pouring his own tea as Greg shuffled through the door with an armful of logs. 

“Not all of them,” I replied, turning my gaze to Sherlock. 

“He’s just a bit too clever. The rest of them, though,” she continued, “you and I could move them around like trained dogs if we wanted to.”

“I suppose,” I agreed. My mother’s intellect and my own were quite equal, as were our talents for manipulation. “Why are we talking about this?”

“Dear boy, you’ve been sitting here for hours looking dejected. It’s as if you really believe that man over there,” she nodded toward Greg who was on his way back outside, “is actually going to give up on you.”

“You said yourself,” I reminded her, “I shouldn’t speak to him in that way.”

“And well you shouldn’t. Mycroft, you have to see it, though. He worships you. He really does. You know everything will be alright after you leave here.”

“I hurt him.”

“And the fact you’ve grown enough as a man to admit you’re bothered by that will be enough to talk him ‘round.” She put her arm around my shoulder. “Trust me, Mycroft. There is nothing you can do that will chase that boy away.”

“How would you know?”

She slowly stood. “I know things. I talk to people.”

“What people?” 

*******

For the entire car ride home, Greg had been taciturn. 

He walked straight for his Christmas tree, as we entered the house, bending to light it, then sitting on the sofa. 

I paced in the foyer for a few minutes before following him. I was still quite unsure as to what I would say to smooth things. As it turned out, that didn’t matter.

“Mycroft?” Greg called to me from the sitting room.

I made my way to the sofa, sitting next to him.

“I should show you something.”

“Alright,” I offered in anticipation.

He reached into his back pocket, pulling out his billfold. He turned it on end and out fell a glimmering golden chain onto his lap. He picked it up between his weathered fingers, dangling it at eye level. I quietly examined the run of metal links as Greg stared me in the eyes. 

It was mine. I’d lost my watch chain several years prior and could never imagine what had happened to it.

“Did you steal it?”

“No. I found it.”

“Found it?”

“On your precious blanket.”

“On my blank……” I stopped myself mid-word. It must’ve come loose and dropped onto the blanket in the sitting room the first night we were together. I lifted my hand to take the chain from him as he tossed his billfold onto the nearby chaise.

I watched as he unfastened his oxford and kicked off his shoes, leaning back into the sofa, resting his arm on its back. He was relaxed, calm, not angry.

“I had to buy a new one,” I said simply, examining the chain once more.

“You want me to pay you back?” Greg mumbled, reaching his fingertips to coax my back toward his arm. 

“Don’t be absurd. You’ve carried this with you for six years?” I asked, lying back onto his shoulder. 

He leaned down so that his lips touched my ear. “You’re not the only one who holds onto things,” he whispered.

“Greg, I really must apologise. My behavior was appalling.”

“Yeah. It was.”

“You were correct. When we say things as the result of upset, they have, in fact, been harbored. The truth is, though, Greg, I would have said the same thing to anyone else in that house today. It was not in any way personal to you.”

“You’ve lost me.”

“For as long as I remember, Greg, everything has been about Sherlock. He’s everyone’s first thought. He is everyone’s priority. He is utterly incapable of behaving himself. As a result, we all spend our time catering to him and either worrying about him or, at the very least, worrying about what he might do next. It never ends.”

“So, you just automatically assume that everyone will choose him over you?”

“Apparently so.”

“Well, you’re free to search my wallet. But I can guarantee ya’ there aren’t any of Sherlock’s belongings in there.” 

I laughed, only slightly. “I  _ am  _ sorry.”

“I know you are. But, Mycroft, know this. I might call on him for help when I’m in over my head. And, yeah, I guess in some strange way, I consider him my friend.” He paused to check for a reaction, but I hadn’t one to offer. “But there is no one in this world who I’ll ever prioritize over you.” 

My body relaxed as I nestled my head against his neck. “I suppose he did only learn your name a year or two ago.”

“I’m still not really sure he knows it,” Greg laughed. 

“Let’s please go up to bed now?” I said.

“You go on up,” he said. “I’ll be there soon.” 


	8. Chapter 8

I heard the bedroom door creak slightly as it opened, then closed again. It was finally Christmas morning, the end of the whole infernal season and Greg had sneaked out of bed thirty minutes or so prior. He returned accompanied by the warm, comforting scent of chocolate, dancing in the air with the vetiver and patchouli of his cologne.   
He had shaved and he had made hot chocolate.   
I heard a wooden tray land on top of his bedside table as he climbed back into the bed next to me. I was still tired. The sun had barely risen. Perhaps if I remained still enough, Greg would actually believe I was still asleep.   
The room was so silent, I could hear the light fabric of his tee shirt as he flung it onto the bedpost. Cold air snuck under the bedclothes as Greg crawled across the mattress, not stopping until his bare chest met the satin shirt covering my back. His right arm wrapped around my ribcage and he pulled me even closer against him, resting his chin on my shoulder.  
“George Bailey,” he whispered.  
Not this again. He had returned, evidently, to his insistence upon discussing my affinity for It’s A Wonderful Life.   
“I know you’re awake.” I felt his breath on my neck. “George Bailey,” he paused again, apparently assuming I’d acknowledge that he was talking to me “sacrifices everything for his little brother. Saves his life even. But the brother gets all the accolades - all the attention - even though George is really the hero.”  
I remained still and silent, panicking internally as a tear began to build in my eye.  
“He did it. He broke you.”  
Playing dead was failing me. I rolled onto my back and Greg nestled himself onto my chest.  
“When did it happen?” he asked, running his hand up between my shirt and torso.  
I exhaled, still not wanting to expound on the topic.  
“Talk to me, Mycroft.”  
Even if he’d back down on this now, he’d just try again later. I was fighting a battle I’d already lost. “I was seventeen,” I said.  
“Which means Sherlock was - ?”  
“Ten.”  
“Good God. Ten? He screwed up that bad when he was ten?”  
“It was Christmas Eve”  
“Of course it was.” Greg began unfastening my buttons as I spoke.  
“I was alone in my room watching my favourite film on the telly. They only ran it once each year.”  
“Hmmm,” Greg hummed to point out that the added details of my story were merely a stalling tactic.   
“Suddenly, he was missing. No one knew where he was. No one could find him.”   
“Except you?”  
“Except me.” I paused, as the vivid memory of my baby brother convulsing in the snow ripped through my mind. “Except me. I found him lying in an alleyway behind a pub in Croydon, covered in snow, nearly hypothermic.” I felt a pit begin to form in my stomach as I remembered how cold his little body had felt to my touch.   
“Jees.” I could see the gears turning in Greg’s mind. “But, he was ten. How could he have gotten enough drugs to do that?”  
“He’s Sherlock Holmes,” I reminded. “He had, I later found out, started his homeless network at the age of eight as a means of manipulating favors and transportation around the city that could be hidden from our parents and me. He talked his way up a drug chain. Once I woke him, he informed me that he was conducting an experiment.”  
“You sure it’s your sister that’s the liability? My God! Ten.” Greg shook his head back and forth in disbelief.  
“Unlike this year,” I continued, “he was so euphoric from the amount of cocaine in his system that he didn’t argue. He came with me willingly, but he had to be hospitalized for nearly a week after that.” Another memory drew my attention from Greg. I could almost feel the cold glass of the hospital window against my back, remembering how I’d sat next to him in that room refusing to leave him even to go to school or meals. They had kept him well asleep for most of his stay, but I remained with him, read to him, talked to him.   
“Is that when you started the notebook and the lists?”   
“Unfortunately, I didn’t think up the idea of making him agree to the lists until he was a teenager. The notebook, though, yes.” Greg knew that I carried with me, at absolutely all times, a book of notes as to the details of Sherlock’s life, movements, and mental status. I tracked him constantly, evaluated him constantly, and worried about him - constantly.   
“So, the little boy who wanted to be George Bailey with a million friends ready to save him and someone special to love, ended up being the George Bailey who lives his life every day, having sacrificed his greatest dreams for his baby brother?” he concluded, referencing the film’s main character again.  
I wrapped my arm around Greg’s shoulder, squeezing his body tight to mine, but chose not to speak.  
“You scoff at the idea of friendship, you’re unbelievably hesitant to love, and you avoid Christmas like a viral plague.”   
“I know what I am, Greg.” My voice was shaking with emotion that I simply did not want to let surface. “I know what I’ve let myself become.”  
His head now rested on my bare chest. I had been correct - he had shaved. The smoothness of his cheek moved across my skin as he nuzzled, trying to somehow get even closer. The rawness of his fingers caused my hair to stand on end as he brushed my abdomen. “Maybe you should reconsider that idea of friendship sometime.”  
“Why in heaven’s name would I do that, Greg?”  
“George Bailey’s friends saved him in the end. Don’t you think you deserve a bit of saving?”  
I did. I knew I did. That’s why I’d exploded at Sherlock at dinner. That’s why I’d yelled at my mother and quashed Greg. Everything I’d ever done for Sherlock - and Eurus - had always gone unnoticed, or, at least, unacknowledged. It was frustrating at times, but the truth was, I didn’t care as much as Greg was implying I did. My main concern was that they were both okay - or whatever state closest to okay was possible for each of them given their mental conditions.  
Placing my fingers under his chin, I coaxed Greg’s eyes to meet mine, then moved to brush my cheek against his. Savoring the scent of his cologne and the cigarette I was just now realising he’d enjoyed before warming the hot chocolate, my lips grazed his chin and his mouth opened slightly in anticipation. I spoke in a breathy tone, deliberately sharing my air with his mouth as I did. “Why would I need friends to do what you’ve already accomplished?” I asked, then took his bottom lip with mine. I closed my eyes, both to savor him and to try to stifle the arousal in my trousers.  
“Slow down,” Greg instructed, pulling away from me. “It’s Christmas.”  
“Sex is off-limits on Christmas?” Without giving him time to reply, I concluded, “and you wonder why I dislike this day so much.”  
He shot me a crooked smile. “Very funny.” I watched as his defined shoulders leaned toward the wooden tray, picking up a cocoa mug in each hand. “Nothing is off-limits. I just have the morning planned out.” He handed me one of the mugs. The enamel was decorated with images of holly berries and the chocolate drink was still so hot that steam was flooding onto my chin. 

*******

Once I had finished my hot chocolate to its very last drop, Greg had allowed me to get out of bed and dress. Actually, he had allowed me to partially dress. He refused to allow a tie, garters, or jacket. He insisted the top two buttons of my shirt remain open, even if I refused to go without a waistcoat. To this day, I will never understand the unending correlation he makes between clothing and relaxation.   
He had led me, by the hand, down the staircase, requiring that my eyes be closed until I was seated on the sofa. As he guided me, I was already aware of my surroundings and the fact that he’d moved both the sofa and the tea table. The saltiness of bacon mingled in the air with the sweetness of warmed jam.   
“Open your eyes,” he ordered, as I fell onto the sofa.  
I was first faced with an embarrassing spread of breakfast and snack foods laid out on the table. As I shifted my glance, I came to find that the sofa, at this angle, offered a view of the Christmas tree of which Greg was still so proud, as well as the bare white wall beside it.   
“Since we had to cut our trip short,” he began,” I thought we could sit back and imagine we’re still there. I know it drives you nuts, but that tree is beautiful.”  
“It doesn’t bother me that much,” I argued.  
“Yes, it does.”  
“Okay. It smells and my eyes itch.” I paused. “It is beautiful, though,” I conceded, reaching for his hand to pull him down next to me.   
He resisted my pull. “Hold on. Here’s the best part.” He ran behind me, flipping off the light switch. As the room went black, illuminated only by the twinkle of the tree in the parlour, I could hear it. Apart from Greg’s voice, it was, without a doubt, my favorite sound. The mechanical hum and grind of my film projector began to echo in the large room, soon covered by the tune of Buffalo Gals.

*******

With my arm resting on the back of the sofa, I felt Greg’s fingers tracing mine. I watched the images moving on my sitting room wall, quietly choking back tears. The main character’s little brother had just returned home, war medals decorating his jacket, as the dozens of people surrounding them began singing Auld Lang Syne around the Christmas tree.   
Greg squeezed my hand as the film faded to black. He flipped the lights on and appeared back at my side with a square box wrapped in green paper with shimmering gold ribbon. “Happy Christmas,” he said resting the box on my lap.  
“We agreed….”  
He interrupted me. “I lied.   
“Greg,” I whined, irritated by the fact that he’d broken our promise not to exchange shop-bought gifts.  
“Technically, I didn’t buy it,” he offered in self-defense.  
I opened the box to find a pillow. Upon it, appeared embroidery resembling that of a piece of work shown in the film - a moon with a face, being lassoed. Among the threads that made up the rope, were the words, “Myc lassos the moon.” It was a reference to the story between the character, George Bailey, and his wife.   
“Greg.” That’s all I said. I was at a loss for any other words.  
As my fingertips traced the stitching, Greg leaned in to kiss my cheek. “Your brother may get all the accolades,” he said, “and he probably always will. But you should really have a reminder that you’re always someone’s hero.”  
I scoffed with a chortle. “Whose?”  
Greg’s rough hands took my face between them, turning my gaze to him. “Mine.”  
I sat the pillow gently on the floor next to me, pulling Greg’s body on top of mine, kissing him with the same power as my desperate desire to never lose him.   
Wait,” I said. “You just watched it two days ago, though.”  
“No. You just caught me watching it two days ago. I’ve watched it three times since I found your secret dungeon.” He ended his sentence with sarcasm.  
“You have?”  
“I have.”  
“And what do you mean you didn’t buy it. You certainly didn’t make it,” I said, looking back over at the pillow.  
“That’s where your lovely Mum comes in handy.”  
That’s what she had been taunting me about. She said that she knew things and talked to people. She had been talking to Greg. I nestled my body deeper into the cushions, bending my neck so that my nose could run through his silver hair. “Thank you,” I whispered. It wasn’t good enough, but no words could have been.  
“Thank your Mum too, alright?”  
“Yes, of course. That’s not what I meant, though.” I paused. “I mean, thank you. Thank you for everything - for the pillow, yes, but also for the tree, and the weekend. Everything.”  
“Hating Christmas a little less, are we?” he teased, running his hand up and down my arm.  
“I suppose it’s difficult to hate it if it’s spent with you,” I granted.  
“Good.” He wiggled his back to slide between me and the back of the sofa. “I was thinking that next year, we could invite everyone here for a….”  
“Don’t push your luck, Inspector,” I interjected.  
He ignored my request. “Whose old silver serving dishes are those down in those boxes?”   
He really had gone through every box in my hidden collection. “My nan’s,” I answered.  
“They’ll look wonderful on the table with some greenery and…”  
“Greg!”  
“Oh, let me plan,” he said. “You know you can’t say no to me.”  
“Of course I can’t,” I admitted. “Perhaps today, though, we could just enjoy - today?”  
He wrapped his arms around my torso, kissing my chin. “Anything you want, Mr. Holmes.”  
The last thing I remember of that Christmas is the touch of his lips pecking my jawline before we both fell asleep on the sofa.  
I have never and will never admit it to Greg, but have yet to be happier than I was that day, in the soft light of his Christmas tree, the sound of carol singers echoing through the neighborhood, comforted in the knowledge that, despite my icy exterior, there was one person in this universe who cared enough to see through me. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, readers!!  
>  First, thank you so much for taking the time to check out this fic. I really hope you enjoyed it.  
>  You can follow me on Twitter @antarcticaokane to keep up with news and updates. I thought I'd share that this story unexpectedly became a tribute to Mark Gatiss as I wrote.  
>  Mark happens to be on my short list of role models, so that is perfectly fine. But it wasn't at all planned.  
>  I am an absolute creative and free spirit. I don't outline. No storyboards or plot maps. I just sink myself into the character's mind and write whatever comes out.  
>  In this case, It's a Wonderful Life was a key element. While writing the scene in the "dungeon", the film presented itself as a connection to a possible childhood love of Christmas for Mycroft. I happen to know this to also be one of Mark's favourite movies, so was excited to see where it would lead. I was as surprised as Greg in Chapter 8 as the parallel's between George Bailey and Mycroft's lives with their brothers were highlighted.  
>  In Chapter 7, I found Mycroft longing to go back to his holiday away with Greg. An image of Sherlock playing with a time machine as a boy surfaced. Conveniently, this served as another homage to Mark, who would, no doubt, list The Time Machine by H.G. Wells as one of his favourite books.  
>  The reference in this fic to Mycroft's notebook should ring a bell for Sherlock fans. This fic states that Mycroft carries the book with him at all times. Mark Gatiss, in fact, carried the book with him at all times throughout the Sherlock episodes, even though we only see it on screen in a few isolated instances. Perhaps that was a nod to Peter Cushing, one of Mark's favourite Hammer Horror actors, who made it a habit to always carry all of his character's effects at all times, whether or not they were seen on film?  
>  Finally, it seems I have a penchant for writing Mycroft as a book lover. I imagine that in the rare moments when he has time completely to himself, he reads. In this story, I found him, twice, sitting alone reading Great Expectations - you guessed it....Mark's favourite novel.  
>  For me, the unexpected adulation is welcome where Mark is concerned, but thought I'd share the coincidences with you.  
>  .....or perhaps they're not coincidences - after all, the universe is rarely so lazy. ;-)  
>  Thanks for reading, friends!  
>  Keep your eyes open for the next story in this series.


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